


Scenes from an Epicenter

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love/Hate, M/M, Mild Gore, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: There are days when Jon greatly dislikes himself and the inclinations that try to rule him.And even on those days, he still dislikes Elias more.





	Scenes from an Epicenter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).



> Mostly follows canon up until episode 103.

There are a lot of things he doesn’t understand about Elias, Jon reflects, staring out across the courtyard below. Too many things. Too many questions he is apparently not allowed to give voice to, too many answers hovering vague and shapeless just in front of him, like mist on a field.

Elias, who feeds him breadcrumbs of knowledge and ushers him, still bleeding, out of his office. As if the entire ugly scene with Daisy, Basira, the gun, the murders…as if it all comes down to nothing other than a not unexpected annoyance. Elias was ready for it all.

Jon grips the balcony. Below, the courtyard divides his Archives from the Institute’s library, cobblestones delineating his workplace, separating it from that of the other employees. He’s always liked that courtyard; it keeps things tidy, keeps the boundaries clear.

Not that he’s territorial about that sort of thing. He just likes knowing where he stands. With everything.

Behind him, the worn old door gives a creak, warped wood protesting as it swings open.

“I like the T-Shirt.” Jon turns to see Elias stepping out onto the balcony, half in and half out of his coat as he tugs it over his shoulders. On any other man it would be a briefly clumsy, humanising moment. As with everything, Elias makes it elegant. Jon bites back the habitual blur of envy/lust that casts a constant shadow on their interactions. “I don’t know if I mentioned earlier.”

Jon pointedly doesn’t look down at the T-Shirt in question, _What the Ghost?_ with its podcast-listening cat mascot, the collar stained with a rust-red half-moon he doubts will come out in the wash.

“Don’t,” he says. “It’s been…the worst of days. At least pretend to leave some of my dignity intact.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, well, good for you. I happen to know someone with a steady supply, I’ll get you your own for Christmas.”

“I look forward to it.”

Jon shuffles reluctantly over to allow Elias space at his side. The rusty wrought-iron balcony hardly seems sturdy enough to take the weight of two grown men, but it’s been that way for as long as Jon can remember. One more day probably won’t prove fatal. And if it does…what better way to end things? Together. Resigned to the company, Jon starts fumbling for cigarettes and lighter.

“I’m still angry with you,” he says. “Even if you can’t tell me things, even if- if it was necessary to push me out on my own. You could have made it easier. You could have written to me, left me some kind of clue that I wasn’t losing my mind. Something to tell me you weren’t…done with me.”

“I sent you the statements.”

“It’s not quite the same.”

“It is, Jon,” Elias says quietly. “For our kind, it is.”

Jon finds the lighter easily enough, his thumb rubbing habitually over its embossed web sheen. The cigarettes provide more of a challenge; he struggles to remove one from the pack. A lack of coordination induced by shock and blood loss, he tells himself firmly. A side effect of only being able to fully use one hand. It will pass. “ _Our kind_. You mean, people who aren’t human anymore.”

Elias taps impatient fingers against the railing. “We’ve already discussed this, and I know you were paying attention at the time. I see no reason to go over it with you again.”

“It matters.”

“Yes, I suppose you would see it that way. Typical of you.” Elias watches Jon fumble with lighter and cigarette, trying and failing to spark a flame. He sighs. Gently pries the lighter from Jon’s hands, careful not to brush against the burns where they peek from poorly wrapped, greying bandages. “I’m afraid it falls to me to take a more realistic view of the situation. I did what I could with what I had, little though it was. I will continue to do my utmost to assist you in your explorations. There is a considerable budget available for that; Gertrude spent it on a combination of travel and hunting down what you refer to as ‘Leitner books’. You may feel free to do the same.”

“Not going to tie me down at all?” Jon asks. “Whatever Gertrude found, it led her to decide that she’d be better off burning down the Institute and you with it. What if I come to the same conclusion?”

Elias is silent for a moment. When he sighs, the sound has an edge to it Jon doesn’t like. On anyone else, he’d call it resigned. “In that case,” he says, “We’ll be out of time and out of options. The world as we know it will cease to exist.”

“Ominous.”

“Quite.” Elias cups his hands around the lighter, shielding its flame from the breeze that sends it flickering. Jon leans in. He doesn’t mean to meet Elias’ eyes as he does; it happens, he can’t look away, and for the longest of moments he feels-

Pinned. Like butterfly to cork board, like a bookmarked page, a framed photograph. Elias looks at him, through him, beyond him, and there is a wrinkling in the skin between his eyes as he tries to bring an image to focus. Something from the present? Or the future, maybe. Can he do that? Jon wonders what would happen if he asked.

And then Elias is blinking, stepping back. Jon finds his cigarette alight, his lighter back in its usual pocket, and no indication that any time passed at all. He shivers.

“Forgive me,” Elias says. “As a rule, I strive for a bit more subtlety than that.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Because that was about as subtle as- as a metal pipe to the skull.”

“Don’t sulk,” Elias tells him easily. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Jon entertains brief thoughts of shoving Elias off the balcony. Unfortunately, they’re only on the second floor and the fall is quite survivable. “What were you looking for?”

“Gertrude was led off the path and into the woods by…friends she should have avoided. I had to be sure they hadn’t approached you either. I can’t be everywhere at once and I can’t watch you every minute of every day. I had to be _certain_.”

 _Ah_ , Jon thinks, struck by understanding. _That explains the reaction to hearing Michael’s name_.

“This will come as a shock to you,” he says, as scathingly as he can manage, “but the only subversive influences I’ve run into so far are the ones you wanted me to find.”

Elias tilts his head in acknowledgement. “All the same. One can never be too cautious, and especially not when we are this close to a point of crisis. Rules bend. Truths…blur. The only thing we can truly be certain of is that our master is watching, and what it cannot see it needs to be _shown_. You need to show it.”

“With statements. With…monsters and other people’s fear.”

“For now.” Elias reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Jon’s unresisting fingers. He pauses. Jon wonders if he is considering tossing it from the balcony, or crushing it underfoot in some small, petty punishment for an incorrect answer to a question he never asked in the first place. He waits, pre-emptively resentful.

Elias brings the cigarette to his lips. Startled, Jon blinks at him.

“I didn’t know you-”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, well, apparently now you do.”

“Apparently,” Elias agrees. “In my defence, you do seem set on making my job as difficult as possible.” He winces, exhaling smoke. “Filthy habit,” he says. “I wish you’d quit again.”

Jon gives a harsh laugh. “Not going to make me?”

“No, as a matter of fact.” Elias passes back the cigarette. “We discussed choices earlier. I understand your distress at feeling you have no control over yours. There’s not much I can do about that, and less that I _would_ do, even if I could. But this, at least, I can allow you. Although that won’t stop me from expressing my personal disapproval.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Jon takes a slow drag and doesn’t admit that he hates the taste, hates the smell that sears his nostrils and tickles his throat. Hates how it clings to his clothes for hours afterwards. “It’s not about the smoking, exactly,” he says. “It’s just…calming. Something that settles me down when I get too antsy, gives me an excuse to get out of a room and recoup. Something to do with my hands.”

“So I’ll get you a Rubik’s cube,” Elias says. “Same outcome, fewer carcinogens.”

Jon has to chuckle at the thought of himself taking breaks to stand on the balcony alone and struggle with a children’s mathematics puzzle. “I’m not much good at those,” he admits. “Never had the patience for numbers.”

“Good,” Elias says. “A challenge. It’ll keep you occupied.”

“Or give me something to throw at people who come into my office and bother me.”

“I’ll assume you’re referring to me, and consider myself warned.”

“Yes,” Jon says. “Do. I’m…I’d say _angry_ with you, but that doesn’t quite cover it. Between the murders, and then letting the police think _I_ was responsible, and then refusing to tell me anything until it was too damn late- yes, I know. _For my own good_. So you say. But you can’t possibly expect me to be happy about it.”

“No,” Elias agrees. “I suppose not. Not yet, at least; in time, you will come to understand my reasons. You may even find yourself surprised at just how far I’ve been bending rules for you.” Jon makes an incredulous sound, and Elias smiles. “I have, you know. And it’s caused me no end of problems. The Lukases have been particularly vocal.”

“The Lukases, where have I-” Jon bites off the rest of the sentence at the shrug Elias gives him. An elegant gesture, a knowing look, both which convey a lack of inclination to cooperate.

He’ll find his own answers. They’ll be in the files; he just has to remember where. Elias can’t stop him from digging through his own records. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants. For Jon to do the extra work, find the answers for himself instead of just forcing them from the man who seems to know everything.

Although _man_ is not an accurate term for the creature that watches Jon take a drag of his cigarette, and winces as he breathes out smoke. A convincing copy, to be sure; a near-perfect facsimile with eyes that catch the light a little too strangely.

“Elias. How did you become…what you are now?” He doesn’t compel, though he considers it.

Elias watches him with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he says. “There’s another thing Gertrude never looked into. Because there is in fact a story to be told, a statement I’ve never given, and I suppose- yes. Why not. I will tell you. Not today, you understand, because you’re nowhere near ready for it and I shudder to think of what the consequences might be if I pushed you that far. No, not today. But someday soon, when you find yourself strong enough, then you may ask me again. I’d be happy to tell you.”

It strikes Jon that this is a peace offering. That Elias thinks he can buy off Jon’s anger, his fear, his pain, with a story. That he can balance out the mysteries and deception by letting slip a few details about his past. That he really believes they’re… _bonding_ right now.

And maybe he’s not wrong; there is a hungry, grasping part of Jon that very badly wants to hear this story. It presses up against the inside of his skin, spreads across his windpipe, mouth and tongue, like lines of ink across a page. It is curious. It demands.

And underneath that, there is another part of himself, though softer and less familiar; this, the part that never fails to notice the elegance of Elias’ hands, the line of his throat, the mild and unfamiliar scent he leaves behind when he comes to Jon’s office. A more human aspect of himself, and one he tries to ignore. This, too, wants what Elias is offering. It is willing to compromise. To make amends.

There are days when Jon greatly dislikes himself and the inclinations that try to rule him.

And even on those days, he still dislikes Elias more.

Elias takes the diminished cigarette from Jon and stubs it out firmly, his mouth twisting in brief disgust. The expression fades as he looks up again.

“Come to dinner with me,” he says. “Please. Not tonight; I understand that you must be eager to return to your flat and your own clothes, and I think you might benefit from some time alone. Tomorrow should suit us both nicely. My treat.” He smiles; it’s his default bland expression, politeness personified, the unremarkable bureaucrat. It doesn’t fit him as well as it used to. Like a snake that has shed its skin, and then tried to slither back inside the castoffs. Jon recoils slightly.

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t think I’m going to do that. Assuming you still plan to leave me a choice in the matter.”

Elias’ mouth tightens. The smile fades. “I do.”

“Right. Well then. I’ll be leaving now.”

“Jon. We should talk about this; a tense workplace is not a productive one, and I’d like to be someone you can confide in.”

Jon considers. It doesn’t take him long. “I think on the whole I’d rather confide in Michael,” he says, and leaves Elias alone on the balcony.

*

There is a pile of mail at the door to Breekon and Hope’s Newcastle depot, and on top is a parcel addressed to Jon. He rips it open, flipping through the pages inside, half expecting to find a note saying, _With love, Elias_. But there isn’t one. Just a statement from a long-dead man. Just a reminder than Jon is never closer than two steps behind.

“Cocky prick,” Jon says out loud, and hopes Elias hears him.

*

He doesn’t tell Elias about Nikola Orsinov and the skin. Maybe he should; almost certainly, he should. There comes a point where it is time to admit that he is in far over his own head, and that he needs help. Nikola Orsinov should be that point.

Jon tries to imagine the conversation. He tries to picture a world in which Elias does something, anything other than smile and wish him good luck with his search. A world in which he does more than just observe as Jon suffers for the entertainment of their master.

He can’t.

He doesn’t tell Elias.

*

‘Your Elias,” Nikola calls him, and Jon would laugh himself sick, if not for the gag. He wonders if she knows just how wrong she is. If she thinks that Elias is sitting in his office, _agonising_ over Jon’s muffled shrieks as she tests his skin and sinew, parts gristle with the tip of her very sharp knife and _tugs_. Maybe she does; she is as precise with her cuts as a master sushi chef, mindful of the dangerous places that would bleed him dry, careful not to sever anything that would render his limbs non-functional.

Jon thinks she might be preparing him for the main event. She discusses moisturiser with her servants, skincare regimes designed to render him soft and simple to peel. She slices him and staunches the blood, wraps him in bandages. Maybe the scarring is what she’s after. A map that will guide her when the time comes; just cut along the dotted line.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been her prisoner. Time is strange here. Blood wells up too slowly, forming shapeless patterns on his skin. Pain is distant. Nothing seems real.

His chest looks like it fell prey to a particularly enthusiastic autopsy.

Jon entertains himself in any way he can. The screaming gets old after a while, and his throat hurts too much to make it worth the effort. He tries to wish himself somewhere different. Warm climates, sunshine, tropical beaches. And then he remembers just how much he _hates_ bloody tropical beaches, so that’s ruined too.

He tries to think about books; a safe place, a creature comfort. Aren’t there stories about prisoners who have kept themselves sane by reciting their favourite books from memory? But as things stand, the only book he has stored on his mental shelves is the one belonging to Mr. Spider. And Jon can’t shake the thought that, by repeating it to himself, he risks drawing attention. Nikola is bad; he can’t say the spiders would be any better.

After a while, his thoughts turn to rescue. Were it to happen (and it won’t, he isn’t genuinely counting on it; Nikola tells him he’s hidden from the Eye, and he believes her), who would come, and how?

Martin, first and foremost; loyal to a fault, and utterly useless. Melanie, probably not; she’s far more methodical, cold in a way Martin is not, and much too clever to try something as doomed as rescuing Jon. Same for Daisy and Basira; he hopes they would know not to try. Tim certainly would. Good for him.

Jon already knows where Elias stands on the topic of rescues. That very charming statement from Jonah Magnus’ friend is one he has listened to on several occasions, his grimace growing ever more hostile. Leave the friend to rot; worse, _observe_ the process, because what could possibly be more valuable than that terrible understanding of exactly how the death occurred. Elias isn’t coming to help.

 _Good_ , Jon thinks, though it surprises him. But he’s seen Nikola’s silhouette in the shadows, one waxwork among many, as she bends over the tape recorder and croons. _She wants him to come here, where she’s powerful and he’s blind. She’s daring him to do it. She has plans._

That leads to thoughts he’d rather not linger on; thoughts of Elias in the darkness with him, gagged and blind, screaming as she strips his skin off to dance in.

 _Elias isn’t coming,_ Jon tells himself, and is far more relieved than he should be.

*

The door creaks closed behind him, but Jon is already on his knees; without Helen’s wavering support, his legs give out immediately. He catches himself on his hands. They’re terribly red, he notices. He doesn’t like to look at them. Or at his arms.

The carpet is soft, a deep and lovely green. He recognises it.

“I told you it would work,” says an unfamiliar voice; male, older than Jon, too far up to look at. There is a note of smug satisfaction to it that Jon doesn’t like. “You’re _welcome_.”

“And you were correct, as you so often are. Well done, Peter. We are in your debt again.”

The second voice is Elias, smooth and reassuring; Jon first reaction is to flinch away. _No,_ he thinks. _You can’t come and rescue me, she’s ready for you, she’s going to wear your skin-_ but his mind catches up with his fear, and snaps at him to wake up. He knows the green of this carpet, the aged-wood smell of this room, the warmth of Elias’ voice. None of this is strange to him. _Ergo_ , he’s no longer the Stranger’s captive.

Jon lifts his head as Elias kneels by his side, the rustle of his clothes the only warning that he is near. They look at each other. Jon doesn’t know what to say.

“Well,” Elias says at last. “Look at you. I’m starting to wonder if you have a fondness for coming into my office looking half dead.”

Jon chokes out a laugh. “No, I…I can’t say that I do.”

“I hope not, or I’ll have to start taking the cost of cleaning out of your wages.” There’s no rebuke in Elias’ tone; he drapes something over Jon’s shoulders, and it’s only now Jon realises he’s wearing underwear and nothing else. He winces as the cuts on his arms sting against the fabric of whatever he’s been covered in. A coat, he thinks. Not his own. It doesn’t feel like something he’d be able to afford.

“I’ll be leaving you both, then,” Peter says; again, the note of triumph, the smugness that raises Jon’s hackles. He can’t lift his chin to look at the man, but it seems there’s no need. Elias does the talking for him.

“I’ll be in touch about repayment,” he says smoothly. “And again: you have my gratitude.”

“Always happy to help.” Jon wonders if Elias can hear the insincerity; the constant undertone to this man’s voice, like an echo, that twists his friendliness into something far less pleasant. He must know. What does Elias not know? Apparently, he even knows of a way to rescue his Archivist from a place the Stranger deemed secure.

“How long-” Jon begins, and Elias hushes him.

“Not now, Jon,” he says. “You’re in shock, or you will be very soon. Best we get you somewhere safe as soon as possible; we have a lot of work to do.” He takes one of Jon’s arms, draping it over his shoulder and hauling Jon upright with too much ease. Jon hisses at the tension it puts on his various cuts; feels several of them reopen and start to ooze. Still, he doesn’t resist.

Things get very vague after that.

*

Illogical though it now seems, Jon has never really thought about Elias having a home. The Elias in his mind is set in stone, gargoyle-like, fixed to his perch in his Institute office. Wandering occasionally but always returning to his tether. Jon has pictured him there, late at night with the stars and the shadows at his window, still at his desk with pen in hand, reading his documents. Recent revelations have done nothing to discourage this imagining. If anything, he’d have put money on Elias just never leaving his Institute.

It’s lucky that Jon is not a betting man; he would have lost that wager.

It’s a tidy, elegant flat; decorations minimalist, free of clutter, the windows tall and imposing. Jon blinks as he is ushered past rooms. Beautiful bookshelves and works of art with eyes that follow him as he moves. Not an old building, he thinks, but it feels somehow aged. The late-afternoon light scours every scrap of shadow from the white walls and high ceilings. It highlights the blood that smears his arms like war paint.

Elias’ hand is a constant pressure at the small of Jon’s back, pushing him gently into a bathroom. Jon catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; sees a mess of bruise and blasted expression, and looks elsewhere. He finds himself relieved of Elias’ coat and coaxed to sit on the edge of the bathtub.

“Painkillers first, I think,” Elias says. He is calm, precise, as he rolls his sleeves up to his elbow and goes to find a first aid kit. “Bear with me just a little longer, Jon. It’s almost over.”

“It’s fine,” Jon tells him. “I don’t feel anything.” His skin seems to fit him oddly, like a shirt two sizes too large; it feels as if it belongs to someone else. As if it is borrowed. There is no pain. Just the odd discomfort, the sense that his body is not his own. He does not know it.

“All the same.” Elias leaves him briefly, an absence that Jon barely feels, knowing as he does that he is not beyond the reach of their master’s gaze. He clutches at the edges of the bathtub. There is blood under his fingernails, and caked into the lines of his palms. He leaves little smears on the gleaming white tiles.

He’s very tired.

“Here.” Elias reappears with a glass of water and several small tablets; Jon blinks at him, uncomprehending. Elias gives an impatient sigh. “Jon,” he says. “You may not feel it now, but you will soon enough. Please. For me.” He holds the glass out until Jon takes it and the painkillers, and watches as he forces them down. Swallowing is difficult. Even his throat doesn’t seem to fit right. It constricts with difficulty, reluctant to function, hesitant like a dog with a brand new master. One it doesn’t yet recognise. His body struggles to remember who it belongs to.

There is a soft, artificial _click_. Jon looks up to find a tape recorder balanced on the edge of the sink, switched on and recording.

“I thought it might help,” Elias says in response to the question Jon wasn’t planning to ask. “I know you’re in shock; I understand. But believe it or not, this is the best way to hasten your recovery. Our master is not without mercy. Give it what it needs, and it will return the favour.”

Jon laughs, a brittle sound. “Are you contractually obligated to tell me that?”

“You shook the hand of a woman made of molten wax,” Elias reminds him. “And you survived the experience without seeking medical assistance, and suffering little more than cosmetic damage. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”

“I just…thought that if I ignored it, it might not be as bad as it looked.”

“And it wasn’t,” Elias says. “Our master made sure of that. You gave it what it needed, and in return it healed you. To an extent. I won’t make you talk if you feel you can’t stomach it, but honestly? You should. Let it help you.”

Jon winces as Elias pulls the undershirt over his head; his skin sticks to it, and he is momentarily worried it might peel free with the cotton. But Elias seems to know what he is doing. He drops the shirt on the floor, touching Jon’s shoulder to reassure him that it is still somewhat intact. His hands are very warm.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims,” he says pointedly. “As given in person to Elias Bouchard. Hopefully.”

Jon tries. Looks for the words, for the voice that should speak through him and lend power to his stories. He tries to be the Archivist. But his chest is hollow-sounding, and his tongue doesn’t fit his mouth as it should; he chokes on his statement and falls silent, shaking his head.

“No?” Elias asks. “Well, I suppose that’s understandable. The Stranger’s influence hits us hardest, and it is always slow to release its victims. Never mind.”

He sees to Jon’s wounds. Or rather, Jon assumes he does; time doesn’t seem to be working as it should, and the spaces between blinks last minutes or more. He is not aware of pain, any more than he feels the cold that raises goose bumps on his bare chest. Elias tries talking to him, until it becomes clear that Jon is beyond doing anything other than sitting upright. After that, he addresses the tape recorder.

Jon comes back to the present at the feel of one of Elias’ hands cradling the back of his head, and the sound of Elias repeating his name.

“What?” he mutters.

“I’ve done what I can,” Elias tells him. “The rest is up to you.” He makes an impatient sound at Jon’s blank expression, lifting one of Jon’s arms to show him.

The gouges are almost gone, muscle and flesh knitted back together clumsily, leaving scars in their wake. They look old. Months older than they are, and it takes Jon too long to understand how that can be.

“Did you give a statement?” he asks. He glances down. Gingerly, he touches the worst of the scars, the ugly reddish V that splits his chest into segments. Elias takes him by the wrist and pulls his hand away.

“It will have to do,” he says. “For now. When you feel a bit more like yourself, you can take care of the rest.”

Elias is much too pale, Jon realises abruptly. He doesn’t know why it stands out to him now more than before; the shadows under Elias’ eyes are pronounced, and his eyes themselves are oddly blank, as opaque as pools of black ink. There is no expression on his face. Even his voice is…different. The edges are scratchy, a far cry from the usual mellifluous calm.

“Are you…feeling alright?” Jon asks. He doesn’t mean to compel, but what little discipline he has is far out of reach, and the power twines itself around his question like fishing line. He sees Elias shiver in response.

“Yes,” he says. “And no. It’s not something I can easily explain. The closest concept you might understand is…exhaustion, I think. I did tell you it wasn’t easy, doing what I do. But the circumstances didn’t leave me with much choice. No need to worry, I’ll come right eventually. Can you move?”

He leans past Jon to start running water into the bathtub. Helps him stand and eases him out of his remaining clothes. It’s not as awkward as it should be, even given Jon’s vehement dislike of being naked and vulnerable around anyone. Elias is brisk, careful. His hands don’t linger. He keeps hold of Jon’s chin as Jon settles into the bathtub, rightly guessing that Jon’s inclination is to slip all the way under the water.

“Still think I’m doing well?” Jon asks. He’s surprised by how wry it comes out; he wasn’t aware he still had the capacity for it.

“I do,” Elias tells him. “You’re not dead, and you’ve managed to grant us several insights into the Stranger’s workings. You haven’t even tried to kill me yet. It’s not my place to play favourites, but…well.”

Jon manages a laugh. It must be the sign of strength that Elias is looking for; he releases Jon’s chin, carefully, withdrawing when it becomes clear that Jon is not going to sink without his support. Even then, he only moves as far as a nearby cabinet, withdrawing several white towels. All but one he leaves within Jon’s reach. The last is placed on top of the bloodstains Jon has left on the side of the bathtub, apparently so that Elias can sit down without ruining his clothes.

Jon would laugh again, if the feeling hadn’t already left his lungs feeling filleted.

“Bit too late for that, wouldn’t you say?” He nods at the stains in Elias’ shirt, the red drying dark on the fabric.

“All the same,” Elias says. “No reason to make it worse.”

“Your bathroom looks like the scene of a massacre.”

“Take it from someone with experience: it really doesn’t.”

Unbidden, Jon thinks of his office. His walls, his desk, his carpet, the dead man leaking all over his workspace. Blood pooling together like ominous storm clouds on a bleak horizon. The smell. He’d almost forgotten the smell.

He breathes in sharply; his eyes find Elias, looming over him. Rolling his sleeves back has left his long-fingered hands exposed, revealing the lines of muscle and tendon in his forearms. He’s stronger than he lets people believe. Jon himself struggled to lift the pipe Elias apparently had no problem bringing down on Jurgen Leitner’s unsuspecting skull. Is that strength a natural attribute, or something far stranger?

There are so many things he doesn’t know about Elias.

“I’m still angry with you,” Jon says quietly. He tells himself he’s testing the waters, checking just how much leeway Elias will permit him in their weakened states. He tells himself he’s re-establishing boundaries. Shoring up the walls of his own personal fortress. And still, he flinches as Elias gives a weary sigh.

“I’m sure you are,” he says. “I won’t bother to try and talk you out of it. I haven’t the energy.”

The lack of retort deflates every argument Jon was marshalling in defence. He finds himself disappointed. He shouldn’t be; how often does Elias just let him have a victory, without at least some form of condescending smile? How often does he just give up and let Jon have his rage, his grudges, his unchecked misanthropy? Never, in all the time Jon has known him. Elias is not one for an easy surrender.

For lack of anything else to say, Jon takes a deep breath. He slides town the bathtub, sinking until the water closes over his head, the heat enveloping him like a womb. Temperature, texture. He’s starting to feel them again. His skin is starting to settle on the scaffolding his skeleton provides, starting to remember that it belongs to him and not to the creature that tried to coax it free. Jon feels a stab of resentment, for how easy it was. Strange, to rage at the capriciousness of his own skin. But there’s no point in raging at Nikola, or Elias. The only target he has for his resentment is himself.

Elias is waiting when he comes back up for air. Wordless, he offers Jon a towel.

They don’t speak for the longest time. Or maybe it’s not as long a time as it seems, but the perception is compounded by how unnatural silence is around Elias. Jon has never heard him silent; Elias’ presence is so inextricably linked with the scratch of fountain pen on paper, with the crackle of the tape recorder, with the whisper of his clothes as he moves, and the press of the questions he asks. But the tape recorder is switched off as Jon stands from the bathtub, pinkish water trickling down his chest and thighs, and Elias is silent.

Evening finds Jon left to his own devices in a guest bedroom that is at once too impersonal and too decorated for his liking; there are several paintings on the walls, brush-stroke eyes to watch him limp to the bed; a bookshelf of biographies, tiny photographed eyes on the spines, watching him toss aside his borrowed dressing gown and slide under soft white sheets.

Jon lies back. He leaves the bedside light on; finds he can no longer tolerate darkness.

In the quiet of the flat, he can hear Elias moving around. Putting away the remains of the dinner they shared, silent aside from Jon’s offer to help do the dishes, which was rejected with tired politeness. Jon tracks Elias’ movements through the kitchen, and then out into the living room. Finding a book, maybe. Or whatever it is that Elias does with his evenings; Jon wouldn’t know.

He’s not sure why it matters to him so much, that he understands where Elias is, and what he is doing in his own home. An attempt to humanise someone he knows for a fact isn’t human in the least? Seeking something familiar to cling to?

He’s almost surprised to hear a soft tread across wooden flooring, followed by the click of the master bedroom door. There’s a part of him that didn’t really think Elias slept.

He clings to his anger, the residual embers of _you let the police think I killed Leitner_ and _you left me alone to try and fumble for answers from monsters_ and _you watched them hurt me_. All valid reasons for rage; all which leave a bad taste in his mouth. Jon is very much afraid that his anger boils down to, _you’re not human, and you’re not what I want you to be, and neither of us can change that._

Sleep won’t come, and while the books would interest him if he bothered to try them (there is a certain unevenness to how they lean on each other, the gaps between them a little too wide, and he suspects that Elias would find the lack of uniformity irritating if not for the fact that he was hastily arranging the shelf specifically to suit Jon’s tastes), he doesn’t feel up to reading. Doesn’t feel up to brooding either; his thoughts are too inclined to slip away from the well-lit paths of his mind, and stumble into dark places full of knives and waxwork sculptures. Or into corridors. He’s not sure which is worse.

He doesn’t understand what _happened_. Michael and then…Helen, and Peter Lukas who took Gertrude on her secret mission to stop the Spiral, and had something to do with stopping it again. Who was standing in Elias’ office as if he owned the place. Who told Elias he was _welcome_.

 _Welcome for what?_ Jon wonders. He thinks he might have the beginnings of an idea, but it strikes him as so implausible, after everything. Elias is the watcher. He sees and does not intervene.

 _Except,_ says a treacherous voice in Jon’s head, _except for that time he beat a man to death with a goddamn pipe. That was quite the intervention._

And there’s no sleeping after that. He can only stare at the ceiling for so long.

Eventually, Jon reaches for his dressing gown. He belts it firmly around his waist and steps out of his bedroom into the unlit hallway.

“Come in,” Elias says at the first knock on his door. Perhaps a little bit before. Almost as if he was waiting; Jon glances over his shoulder at the nearest painting on the wall. A woman, or maybe not. In the darkness, all he can make out are the eyes.

He turns his back on them and opens the door.

Elias doesn’t seem surprised by the interruption. He sits up in bed, pillows neatly stacked behind him and a pile of what look very much like statements in his lap. He’s wearing reading glasses. That, more than anything else, throws Jon off completely.

“Oh. I, uh, didn’t realise…” Jon gestures towards his own face in response the Elias’ raised eyebrows. “The glasses. You don’t have them at work.”

“Just for reading in dim light,” Elias says crisply. He neatly stacks his papers on the bedside table and sits his glasses on top of them. As if by habit, he reaches up and rubs the bridge of his nose, wincing. Stops as soon as he realises he’s doing it. “This body’s starting to wear, I’m afraid. I’ll have to do something about that, sooner or later, but I really can’t find the time right now. I should be alright for another decade or so. But, as you so astutely noted, there are sacrifices that come with waiting.”

“I…” Standing in the doorway, Jon finds himself at a loss for anything to say. His mind grinds like ill-oiled gears, trying to wrap itself around something Elias is almost telling him. He can’t. Answers flutter just out of reach, like moths in lamplight.

Elias’ expression is one of patience. “Can’t sleep?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t, Jon,” Elias tells him. “We’ve all had our share of nightmares.”

“Even you?” Jon moves in response to the little jerk of Elias’ head, the unspoken invitation that has him crossing the room and stopping by the side of the bed. He stalls for a moment, uncertain of whether he’s welcome under the covers. Elias settles the matter by tugging them back with a pointed look.

“Yes,” he says as Jon eases himself under the covers, as close to the edge of the bed as he can manage. “On occasion, though not as often as I once did.”

Tugging the pillow into a shape that suits him, Jon speaks before he can think better of it. “What do your nightmares look like, then?” He regrets it immediately; there is perhaps the barest thread of compulsion in his voice, but Elias answers seemingly without thought, and it is only now that Jon remembers his exhaustion.

“Darkness,” he says immediately. “All-encompassing shadows, smothering the world like ash clouds in the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. Silence; not mere quiet, not a brief pause, but a total absence of sound. Emptiness. I am floating a vacuum in which I can sense, hear, see, taste, _feel_ nothing at all. There are no stars in the sky beyond, and no movement in the halls of my Institute. It is not that the world has ceased to recognise me; rather, I am led to wonder whether the world ever existed, or if I just imagined it in a fevered dream. Maybe this _nothing_ is my reality. Certainly, it is the only world that will have me now.” He takes a sharp breath. An indecipherable expression crosses his face; not rage, not fear, not sadness. Maybe all three at once. It’s gone before Jon can decide.

“I’m sorry-” he begins.

“Don’t be,” Elias says. It doesn’t sound convincing. He is clearly rattled. “It was a harmless question. Of no consequence to your quest to stop the Unknowing. Unimportant.”

“Not to you.”

“Honestly, Jon,” Elias says. The old sneer is back, the superiority Jon hates, and is relieved to see. “I hardly think the contents of my nightmares sufficient cause for worry. I have no doubt yours are more…colourful. You should talk about them some day; I’m sure our master would appreciate the transparency.” He clearly means to goad a reaction from Jon, to annoy him enough that he’ll drop the entire topic.

 _You’re normally so much more subtle than this_ , Jon thinks. _Or maybe I’m just feeling uncommonly perceptive._ He doubts it, somehow. He’s so tired the room is starting to blur.

“I could argue with you,” he says. “You might prefer that; all back to normal, everything as it should be. But honestly, I don’t think it would be very good.”

Elias’ lips twitch. “Well, better to avoid it, then. We both know how exacting I am about my arguments.”

“Slave driver,” Jon agrees through his yawn. It says a lot about his reduced mental faculty that he doesn’t seek permission to stay in Elias’ bed, to steal one of his pillows and half the blankets. If Elias is uncomfortable, he is welcome to leave.

The bedside lamp flicks off. Jon blinks into the shadows.

He can hear Elias moving behind him, settling down on his side, eyes no doubt fixed to Jon’s back. Where else would they be? If he could, no doubt he’d spy on Jon’s dreams as well. Browse his memories like library books, read his thoughts before he’s even aware of them. There is no knowledge their master doesn’t crave.

Elias touches his back, and Jon shivers. The touch is gentle, careful, a caress up the length of his spine. He doesn’t have any scars on his back; Nikola left him smooth and unmarked, telling him as she did that she meant to open him up from the front. Break his arms and peel him open. Again, Jon shivers.

“I’ll be here if you want to talk about it,” Elias says behind him. Jon closes his eyes.

“You mean our master wants me to talk about it.”

“Yes,” Elias says. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t want the same, in a personal capacity. I’ve told you before: there’s a difference.”

“Which is _what_ , exactly?”

He hears Elias sigh. Feels the shift of the blankets, the dip in the mattress, another man’s heat at his back. It’s not unpleasant; Jon doesn’t bother trying to convince himself otherwise. Even in the confines of his own head, he’s not that good of a liar. Anger alone is not enough anymore. He can’t make himself hate Elias as much as he needs to.

“I am the heart of the Institute,” Elias tells him; one hand kneads gently at the back of Jon’s neck, working at the tension he finds there. He’s very good at it. “Among other things, which I will tell you about in time. I have professional responsibilities, same as you, and these are not always in line with my personal feelings. Which, since you asked, currently consist mostly of worry, annoyance, and no small amount of affection for you. Are you honestly going to make me have this entire conversation with your back?” Irritation creeps into his tone. It gives Jon something to focus on that isn’t the words; he’s glad of it. Otherwise, he might have to actually think about what he’s being told. He might have to respond.

He knows what he’d say, and he hates it. He hates that this is part of his life now. Cursed to never dislike Elias as much as he deserves. And even that is an understatement.

“Yes, actually,” Jon says. “I’d like for this conversation to be over, if it’s all the same to you.”

“And if it’s not?”

“I don’t _care_.”

Elias is silent for a moment; Jon almost makes the mistake of thinking he might have won this round. And then he feels warm air exhaled on the back of his neck.

“I see,” Elias says. “Well, unfortunately for you, I _do_ care. And that means you don’t get to have the last word. Not today.”

“Not ever,” Jon says bitterly. “Not if you have your way. Fine. You can have…a minute.” He rolls over reluctantly, avoiding Elias’ eyes in favour of adjusting his pillow. “One minute, and then I’m done with listening.”

“Are you going to time me?” Elias is openly amused.

“I might.” He won’t. And Elias knows this, in the same way that he knows he’ll be allowed to take Jon’s chin in one hand, to give that awful, _awful_ amused smile, to pull him closer like they’re lovers and not…something else.

“Then I’d better not waste my limited time,” Elias says. His mouth puts a stop to any retort Jon might have managed.

It’s good, kissing Elias. Jon could have guessed as much, if it was something he’d put much conscious thought into, which he will never admit. Still, if he had, he would have expected it to be exactly as it is. Unnervingly expert, a touch of lips and tongue that comes with all the confidence Jon lacks. He doesn’t push too far. If anything, he seems to want Jon to lead.

 _He’s bloody teaching me_ , Jon thinks. _Same as ever. Showing me how to do what he wants, and only that_. But he’s clearly still at least partly human; he’s not immune to a good, old-fashioned racing heartbeat, to his thoughts slowing down to a crawl. Not quite slow enough to forget the anger, though, or what’s left of it. Not slow enough to let Elias melt him completely.

Jon pushes Elias, chasing his lips as he forces the other man onto his back underneath him. He swears he feels Elias’ smile; doesn’t care enough to stop. There’s a certain intoxicating sense of victory to having Elias under him. A dangerous overconfidence. He’s not gentle about slipping his tongue into Elias’ mouth, but there’s no resistance when he does.

Jon tries to hate him for not fighting. For the lazy hand he drapes around the back of Jon’s head, fingertips gently stroking his ear. For smiling into Jon’s mouth.

He can’t.

It would have been easier if there was something magical about it all; some sense of outside interference, an uncanny kind of completion, two spheres combining into a circle. Then, he could have blamed the whole thing on anything other than himself. And he can’t; he’s kissing someone that feels very human, like a man that wants just as badly as he does. Elias makes a muffled sound of encouragement against his tongue, and Jon feels heat flood his insides. He thinks about straddling Elias’ hips. Wonders if he could still manage his usual air of smug superiority with Jon’s weight in his lap.

“One minute,” Elias whispers against his mouth. Jon pulls back far enough to glare.

“That was a long minute,” he says.

“Yes,” Elias agrees. “They happen sometimes.” He still has a hand in Jon’s hair, kneading pleasantly at his skull. His breathing comes just slightly faster than usual.

“How often is _sometimes_?”

“I suspect that’s up to us to decide. Shall we say…any time you and I aren’t at each other’s throats?”

“Almost never then,” Jon says, and pulls away to the not unpleasant sound of Elias’ laughter. He’s reluctant about it; he feels the hand in his hair fall away without enthusiasm. But this- this can’t be something they just do on a whim. He doesn’t know what makes him so sure, only that he doesn’t want this tangled up in Nikola’s shadow, buried in the deepest recesses of his mind. And he _doesn’t_ want it recorded in the statement he’ll inevitably give.

“Sorry,” Jon says. “Just…”

“Not now,” Elias finishes for him. “I quite agree. Not that I wanted to dampen your enthusiasm, but I really do need some sleep if I’m to do my job properly. The world won’t spy on itself.”

“And what a pity it would be if no one was spying,” Jon says. But he’s only slightly sour about it, and doesn’t object when Elias nudges him back onto his side and drapes an arm around him. “That won’t be comfortable for you.”

“I’ll worry about it when it becomes a problem.”

“Suit yourself.” Jon inhales sharply as Elias kisses the nape of his neck, lips lingering in a way he tries to memorise. Not exactly conducive to sleep. But when has Elias ever been helpful?

“I know you’re still angry,” Elias says quietly. His breath is warm on Jon’s neck. “I understand. Believe it or not, I was angry myself, in the beginning.”

“What changed?”

“I learnt,” Elias says. “And after a while, I saw. But that was a long time ago.” His voice trails off; he lacks his usual eloquence, exhaustion clearly catching up on him. Jon hears his breathing slow and even out as seconds turn to minutes. The arm around his waist grows limp and heavy; Jon doesn’t quite dare touch it, though he’d like to. He feels an inexplicable urge to treasure the moment. It might be the most Elias has ever trusted him.

He is still angry. A distant, simmering rage that he’ll feed until it roars, when he needs it next. Jon’s always been good at holding grudges. Less so at releasing them. It strikes him that Elias is much the same; now, he wonders just how long it took Elias to put his own rage aside. How he managed it. _If_ he managed it, or if he simply learnt to keep it close and quiet, to set it loose when it would be useful to him.

 _I could ask_ , Jon thinks. _Not that he’d tell me. Not unless I forced him to._ He has so many questions for Elias. _How did you become what you are,_ and _How old are you, actually_ , and _Who were you? Who are you now?_

There are so many things he doesn’t know about Elias. Jon wonders how long it’ll be before he’s permitted to ask.

*

The next day, he discovers just how long it was that Nikola kept him captive.

 _A month_.

Jon doesn’t think he’s ever been so furious in his _life_.

Then Melanie shows up and tries to kill Elias. It’s not the first time. She’s angry. They’re all angry, but Melanie alone takes it as far as actually trying to execute a stabbing in Elias’ office. Jon talks her out of it; he’s not very convincing, with her rage in his face and Elias’ austere indulgence at his back, and a part of him considers taking the knife from her and doing it himself. It would solve so many problems. Yes, it might kill them all. But maybe not. Maybe it’s the solution they need. Maybe he’d be doing them all a favour.

Jon thinks about the texture and temperature of fresh blood on his hands. He’s more familiar with it than he’d like, and he knows the feel of a knife against his throat, pressing until it starts to split. He knows the choking fear that followed as he fumbled for the tears in his skin, trying to hold it together as the blood seeped between his fingers. That sense of imminent death, of a body on the verge of crisis; that singular, disbelieving terror. He tries to picture it on Elias’ face. He doesn’t take the knife.

He tells Melanie that they can’t do it now. Not like this. The implication is clear; some day, they might have to. But he finds himself hoping that they can find another way, though it’s clear enough that Melanie might not give him the time he needs to seek it out. She’s already tried twice. They both know that Elias won’t allow her a third failure, so the next attempt will need to be more carefully planned. And Jon doesn’t doubt that there will be a next attempt, just as soon as she decides to categorise him as useless.

She’d be wrong; Jon is not, in fact, useless. But his uses lie in a completely different direction, and he doesn’t know if she’d bother to listen to his halting explanations. He can’t free any of them from the Institute. He might just be able to save the world.

For that, he’s going to have to leave.

And Melanie will try again.

*

“Do you think your Section would move against him?” Jon asks Daisy. It’s eerie, down in the tunnels. The walls warp at the edges of his vision, an uncomfortable optical illusion; his hackles are permanently raised. Judging from the way she keeps pointedly glancing over her shoulder, he’d bet Daisy is suffering from the same paranoia.

But they’re safe down here. He hopes they’re safe. Elias would struggle to watch them, and given the effort it would take, maybe he won’t bother.

Too late, it occurs to Jon that by calling this meeting he has essentially told Elias that there is something worth overhearing. He should have handled it differently; set up decoy meetings for irrelevant purposes, started forcing his assistants to report to him in the tunnels, maybe conspired to move his entire office down here. He should have bluffed until Elias stopped bothering to listen in.

But Jon has to leave the country to save the world, and the next time Melanie slips, Elias is going to kill her. Unless she somehow kills him first.

“Maybe,” Daisy tells him. It’s not the answer he wanted; judging by the look on her face, she knows this, and sympathises. And then she nods at the recorder in his hand. “You sure you want to talk with that thing running?”

Jon has no memory of turning it on. He has no memory of carrying it down here with him, or even of picking it up from its place on his desk. It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be recording.

And he shouldn’t be so relieved to find that it is. To find that the choice has been taken from him, and that now Elias will take steps to ensure that Section 31 doesn’t have a leg to stand on if they do act against him. There won’t be an arrest, or an…assassination. Elias won’t be dragged away to a cell where god knows what could be done to him, and there won’t be any midnight visits to quiet, wooded locations with rows of raised-earth mounds where the monsters are buried. Now Elias knows it’s coming, the Section has lost its potential; just one more neutralised weapon, discarded like Melanie’s knife. Elias is always two steps ahead. And Jon is angry.

But he’s also relieved.

*

Jon is leaving. His flights are booked, his bags are somewhat packed, and his departure is scheduled at the unavoidably early hour that plagues so many international travellers. He doesn’t say many goodbyes. He’s never been good at them, and there’s no point anyway. Daisy knows what she needs to do in his absence.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Elias says. Across the desk from him, Jon gives a tight smile and accepts the folder of documents Elias hands him. “Rosie’s confirmed all your bookings, as well as the travel insurance and transportation details. I’ve also included copies of the documentation for your approved leave of absence. You’ll find your Institute-issued credit card in there as well. _Use_ it, Jon. Gertrude certainly did.”

“One day you’ll have to tell me how a research institution can afford all this.”

“Careful investments,” Elias says smoothly. “Not to mention generous donors. How goes the packing?”

“Fine.”

“And how are you getting to the airport?”

“I’ll book a hotel for tonight. Georgie’s place is a long way off, and she’s a light sleeper. I don’t think she’d appreciate having to listen to me drag a suitcase out the door at two in the morning.”

“I was going to suggest that you stay with me,” Elias says. He lifts a hand to forestall Jon’s objection. “Just listen, please. I live closer, and I’m happy to drive you there; I need to come in early tomorrow anyway, I have a meeting with several Board members. And I’d like to see you off. If you don’t mind, that is.” He’s so careful about the offer. They’re both careful, these days; tentative around each other, mindful of pushing too far. Jon hates it. And he suspects that, for all his practiced diplomacy, Elias too is struggling to be patient.

Jon keeps his tone even. “I don’t- you don’t need to do this.”

“I know,” Elias says crisply. “But I’m offering anyway.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons,” Elias says. “In my professional capacity, I’m worried about the Stranger’s people attacking you in transit; they may not know where you’re going, exactly, but your actions pose a serious threat to their little project, so they’ll do anything they can to stop you. You should be alright for a while once you leave the county. It’s just a matter of getting you out in one piece. I also have some lingering concerns about the state of our working relationship- _don’t_ smirk at me like that, please, I’m serious. We really do need to resolve our differences.”

“Yes, I’m sure all we need to fix _that_ is another shouting match,” Jon says. He does nothing about the smirk. It annoys Elias, and that’s good enough for him. He hasn’t found many things to amuse him recently.

Elias makes a frustrated sound. “The attitude isn’t helping either.”

“The _attitude_ is most of the reason why you hired me.”

“I didn’t expect to be on the receiving end of it quite so often.”

“But you like it,” Jon says. He doesn’t know where the certainty comes from. The words slip out without his conscious thought. “You enjoy being superior to people and knowing things they don’t. You consciously present yourself as the mysterious, barely-human presence we can all feel on the backs of our necks, all the time, making you a part of every single conversation we have, every action we take. And most of it’s for show. It makes people either fear you or lash out, and you like that. When people are off-balance, you learn more about them.” The words come to an end; Jon blinks, swallowing back an odd taste in his mouth. It’s gone before he can identify it.

Elias is smiling. “Oh, very well done,” he says. He sounds delighted. “You’re getting more proficient every day; I did wonder how long it would take you to start reading _me_.”

It’s distressingly hard to lash out in response to Elias’ genuine glee, to a smile that for once doesn’t feel smug in the slightest. For once, he’s not the _other_. He’s just a man, impressed by Jon’s achievements. And his enthusiasm is catching. Jon almost smiles back.

“I just- I don’t know exactly how I do it,” he admits reluctantly. “The compelling is fine, I can control that now. But this just seems to slip out. Did you make it easier for me?”

Elias inclines his head. “Perhaps a little,” he says. “But most of it was you, and you alone. _Very_ impressive.”

“Let me guess,” Jon says dryly. “It tingles?”

“Not…exactly. It’s hard to describe if you haven’t experienced it. And you and I respond differently to others; what would be an invasion to anyone unconnected to our master, is something else entirely to us. Maybe I’ll show you, someday. It’s a skill I share.”

“So why not use it now?”

Elias gives a surprisingly inelegant snort. “Honestly, Jon,” he says. “You dislike me enough as it is. I can’t imagine the situation would improve at all if I started dragging secrets from your unwilling mind. No. You are more than welcome to continue reading me; I encourage it, and I’m very eager to see what kinds of things you manage to uncover. But as I said before: on a professional level, I’m averse to doing anything that might cause a further deterioration in our relationship.”

“And on a personal level, you’re counting down the days until you get to do to me what you did to Gertrude?” Jon asks. He’s consciously not compelling; there’s no more power than truth in the words. He doesn’t really think Elias wants him dead. Archivists are not an infinitely renewable resource, for one.

That, and Elias is fond of him. For whatever reason (and Jon is aware that he could ask, that the answers are within his grasp if he wants them, but he’s not sure he’s ready for that yet. He doesn’t want to know what it is that Elias finds desirable in him. Not yet).

 Elias is still smiling; it’s not smug, not superior. He does it because it comes naturally to him in this particular moment. Jon is surprised by how much he likes the expression. “Tell you what,” he says. “If you can draw another secret from me, I will give you…shall we say, two weeks of peace and quiet once you leave the country? Which isn’t to say I won’t be watching; I think we can both agree that things tend to go badly any time you’re out of my sight. But I won’t contact you at all. No calls, no messages, no statements, no demands. You might even manage to pretend I’m ignoring you. Does that sound fair?”

“It sounds like you’re offering me a vacation.”

“So I am,” Elias says. “But you’ve been making progress in leaps and bounds; you’re already years ahead of what your predecessors have managed. I’d say you probably deserve a break. There’ll be precious little time for relaxation soon enough.”

“Because of the Unknowing.”

“That is one of the issues, yes.”

“Alright,” Jon says. He rubs his hands against the fabric of his trousers to dry them. He’s not sure when he started sweating. The aftermath of using his powers, maybe. Or the anticipation of using them again. On Elias, no less. “Two weeks of silence. And if I choose to spend those two weeks…visiting art galleries and museums, and doing no work whatsoever, you don’t get to say a word.”

“Agreed.”

“Fine.”

“Whenever you’re ready, Jon,” Elias says. He leans back in his chair, spreading his hands in plain invitation. “I’m an open book; tell me a secret.”

It’s not as easy as it sounds. A bit like casting a fishing line off the edge of a small boat in the middle of the ocean, with no knowledge of how deep or far it should go before the lure attracts attention; or indeed, what kind of attention he’s seeking. This is not something Jon has ever consciously managed. The power eludes him, slipping through his fingers when he grabs. He clings to the memory of that odd taste in his mouth, and stares at Elias. Elias waits.

Jon doesn’t know what he’s looking for. His successes have been unconscious, slipped into conversations by a dormant part of his mind that he hadn’t even realised existed. And now, faced with Elias’ patience, Jon can’t find it again.

 _Damn,_ he thinks. _There goes my vacation_.

He breathes slowly. His pulse is fast, a result of the pressure, and the weight of Elias’ eyes on him. And for a moment the room blurs a little; what he sees is not one, but two versions of the man in front of him. Only one of them is even remotely man-shaped.

Something looms, casting a shadow as black as ink, its outline twitching this way and that, like the darting of an eye. Its blood is a composite of tiny, tidy letters, typewritten uniformity, shifting under a gossamer layer of papery skin. It has eyes. It has so many. Jon tries counting them and finds his head beginning to ache. Its oppressive presence stretches up to fill the ceiling and its corners; its edges are feathered like an owl’s wings.

He knows he could find secrets written under this creature’s skin. If it let him get close enough, if he could force himself to focus for long enough to make sense of all those letters, he thinks he could read secrets until he went blind. But it hurts too much to try. He has to look away.

The man-shaped Elias is easier. He limits himself to two eyes, opaque as ink, but warmer by far. He knows what Jon is trying to do. And if his smile is anything to go by, he’s very pleased by it.

“You _are_ getting good at this,” he murmurs. “What do you see?”

Jon’s eyes are watering. “You, I think,” he says.”Which one is real?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, I suppose not.” Jon makes himself look between the man and the shadow with the letters under its skin. He fumbles to put words to what he is seeing. Maybe there aren’t any; maybe the monster has all the words, and Jon himself has none.

It frightens him a little. The way it hovers, leaning over him, pointed tips like feathers brushing the air around him. He has the sense that it would like to engulf him. That it is hungry. That he has within him something that would sustain it.

“I think,” he says, and stops to clear his throat. “I feel like it wants to…devour me. Sort of. It wants my words.”

“Part of the…professional aspect, you could say.” It’s strange, hearing the words come from Elias’ mouth, from a human throat and voice box, and for them to sound so normal. “A little closer to our master than the shape you’re accustomed to, but no different otherwise.”

“I’d say it’s different,” Jon retorts. “That thing wants to drain all the knowledge from my mind. _You_ just want to sleep with me.”

It slips out. He doesn’t know where it comes from, or how he can be so sure. But Elias gives a delighted laugh, and Jon finds himself smiling reluctantly in response.

“Have I earned my vacation?” he asks.

“Very much so,” Elias says. “Well done, Jon. Well done indeed. Also, at the risk of sounding somewhat crass…the offer’s there if you want it.”

“What makes you think I’m interested?”

“You are,” Elias tells him, and for a moment Jon feels a slight sting, like a single hair being pulled free from his scalp. Something has been plucked from his mind. He didn’t consent to its removal. But he supposes that, given the circumstances, it’s probably justified. He keeps the resentment to a minimum.

“So that’s what it feels like,” he says. “Right. Good to know.”

“Yes,” Elias agrees. He reaches for the fountain pen at his elbow, uncapping it and then pulling a file of documents towards him. There is a certain finality to the gesture. An air of dismissal. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really do need to prepare for that meeting tomorrow. I’ll come and get you from Miss Barker’s flat this evening. Shall we say, half past five?”

“Are you going to buy me dinner too?” Jon asks dryly.

“Unless you object?”

He doesn’t. Or at least not as much as he should. “Fine,” Jon says, and leaves before he can regret it.

*

Elias takes him out to dinner, to a quiet, elegant restaurant Jon would never have dared to enter, with a price list he winces at and Elias doesn’t seem to notice. They talk; civil, at first, until they slip. After that they argue in hushed tones with small and violent gestures, though under the table their knees are pressed together.

It’s so very typical of them; the push and pull relationship, the fights and unstable reconciliation. They are impatient with each other. They stand on different planes of existence and try to meet in the middle and, inevitably, they never quite succeed. They are an ever-unbalanced set of scales; flawed, and never quite measuring up correctly.

 _This is a disaster in the making_ , Jon thinks as they return to Elias’ tidy flat. White walls and empty spaces. Paintings with eyes. The only point of irregularity here is his shabby old suitcase, sitting incongruously in the living room. A stranger in a land that has no place for it. _We are never going to make this work._

To his own considerable horror, he finds himself trying to remember the last time he had sex with someone other than himself. It’s been a long time. As a rule, Jon is not terribly good with other people. He can barely maintain close friendships; romantic intimacy is beyond him. He honestly struggles to remember when the last time was, how it went, who it was with. Ironically enough, Elias could probably tell him in detail, if Jon hated himself enough to ask.

He doesn’t. Instead, he falls into the habits that have served him well for so very long: avoiding eye contact as Elias helps him out of his coat, flinching as his hands rest too long on unprotected skin, pulling away and mumbling something about getting an early night’s sleep.

He can feel Elias’ eyes on his back as he scurries for the spare room. That feeling lingers when he ducks out fifteen minutes later into a mercifully empty hallway and slips into the shower like a guilty man.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself. _You’d just be making life more difficult for yourself, once you leave and start forgetting what he’s like and only remembering the good bits. Such as they are. Don’t do it. Just…shake his hand and go. You don’t owe him anything other than a job done properly._

Jon leans his head against the wall, the water pouring in sheets down his back. There are few things he despises more about himself than cowardice, but he admits it: he is a coward. Too afraid to ask for something he could have. Too afraid of awkward consequences, or maybe just afraid of looking like an idiot. Afraid of humiliating himself in the face of Elias’ ever-present competence. He thinks back to the moment in the hallway, the hands that lingered on his neck, on the pretext of taking his coat off for him. They could have been in bed together by now. If he’d just stayed put instead of fleeing.

It crosses his mind to wonder if Elias is watching, even now. If he sees the water and soap suds slide down Jon’s bowed spine, if he reads the war between want and rage that wages in his clenched fists. If he’s struggling with much the same. Jon feels his breath catch. Feels his resolve crumble away like old sandstone.

“Come in,” Elias calls when Jon taps sullenly on the door of his bedroom.

With a flicker of déjà vu, Jon steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He has to hide a smile at the reading glasses perched incongruously on Elias’ nose.

“Nightmares again?” Elias asks with the ghost of amusement, a subtle reminder that he knows Jon hasn’t actually tried to sleep yet, that his hair is still damp from the shower he took too long in, and that his hands are shaking slightly.

“No,” Jon says honestly. “I was…wondering if that offer was still there.”

For a moment, he thinks Elias might reject him outright. It would be fair, if cruel; still, Jon would respect the decision.

And then Elias jerks his head towards the empty bedside. He doesn’t look annoyed. His eyes are very dark. “I thought you might change your mind,” he says as Jon approaches. “But I’m never quite sure with you.”

Settling on top of the covers, Jon says, “I wasn’t sure myself. I’m still not.”

“Well,” Elias says, dry as dust. “Do let me know if you work it out, won’t you? And in the meantime.”

His kisses are an exercise in the erosion of self-restraint. They start out so controlled, so methodical; he coaxes Jon’s mouth into opening for him, patient with his fumbling hesitancy. And then their tongues touch, careful and undemanding; Jon gives a muffled moan. He feels Elias tense up. Feels something intangible snap between them.

Elias surges up against him, kissing him hard, demanding response; now, he tastes a little acrid, a little like the smell of ink, and Jon wonders if he’ll find it smeared across his lips later. He can’t bring himself to care. His skin tingles everywhere Elias touches him. And as his dressing gown is pushed from his shoulders, his pyjamas dispensed with, Jon finds himself fumbling to make it happen faster. He has never wanted to be bare so much in his life. Or to have someone else undressed with him.

Even in the dim, inadequate light of the bedside lamp, Jon sees enough of Elias that his mouth goes dry.

“Lie on your stomach for me,” Elias tells him in between kisses that break apart every remaining piece of Jon’s resistance. “Please.”

Jon obeys without question. He dislikes the sense of helplessness it forces upon him, in the same way that he dislikes the uncomfortable press of his half-hard cock against the bedcovers. But he’s willing to let Elias take the lead on this. Jon can admit to his own inadequacies; he is not at his best here, naked on another man’s bed. He doesn’t have much idea of what he ought to be doing. And so he lets himself be guided.

“This is a bad idea,” he says into the pillow, and hisses as Elias bites the nape of his neck. Not hard; a warning, nothing more. His skin tingles in its aftermath. “I am…positive we’re both going to regret this.”

“Are you?”

“Aren’t _you_?” Jon says, demands, compels. He feels Elias exhale into the crook of his shoulder; a low, breathy sound, a sub vocal moan. It affects him more than it should. Unbidden, he finds himself parting his legs enough for Elias to slip a thigh between them. It’s a small comfort to find that he’s not the only one who wants this, and badly.

“I have a lot of regrets, Jon,” Elias tells him. His nose brushes Jon’s earlobe, and his lips press lightly against the sensitive skin behind his ear. “You’re not one of them. I hope you never become one of them, but rest assured- if you do, it won’t be because of this.”

He’s back to kissing Jon’s neck, effortlessly finding all the places Jon is most sensitive, all the places that make him shiver and bite down on sounds he’d be embarrassed to make. He’s not surprised that Elias knows these things. Elias apparently can’t manage to rescue his only Archivist during a month of terrifying captivity, but he can work out exactly which of Jon’s buttons to push for the sake of inducing a reaction. Jon is briefly resentful. And then Elias starts kissing a path down the bumps of his spine, and resentment takes a back seat to good, old-fashioned lust.

“This won’t make me like you any more, you realise that, don’t you?” Jon closes his eyes against the pillow; feels teeth pinch his skin, somewhere around the base of his spine. “There is nothing you could possibly do-”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do,” Elias says, openly amused. His mouth is very warm against Jon’s back. Jon feels a hand between his thighs, patiently nudging them open, a thumb stroking his skin. It all seems unnervingly affectionate.

He likes it. He hadn’t expected that he’d like it this much.

“After all the trouble you’ve caused,” Elias muses. His fingers rub across Jon’s tailbone, teasing. “All your arrogance, your…disrespect. I’ve let you have your fun. I’ll probably continue to do so; a bit of disrespect is a small price to pay for the things you could achieve. Still, though.”

“ _What_?” Jon snarls. He doesn’t remember gritting his teeth; he twitches at the play of Elias’ fingers across his tailbone, as they threaten to dip further down. He’s hard already, uncomfortable against the bedspread. He knows without asking that he won’t be allowed to move. Not yet.

“I could destroy you, Jon,” Elias tells him. He breathes cool air against the base of Jon’s spine, prompting shivers in response. “In so many ways; I’m not sure you even realise.”

“More murders?” Jon asks.

He can hear the smile in Elias’ voice. “No,” he says. “I suspect you’ll respond better to a more…intimate approach. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, of course. You know how I value your feedback.” His mouth finds Jon’s tailbone, pressing a brief kiss against it; it’s the barest of pressure, the lightest touch, but Jon goes very still. His skin is abruptly much too hot. He struggles to form coherent thought.

He is painfully aware of Elias’ fingers where they graze against his hole. Anticipation renders him mute, tense. He hates the lack of control he’s being afforded. Hates how susceptible he is to everything Elias does to him.

“Please,” he mutters into the pillow.  “Please, can we just-”

The sentence hangs where he leaves it, abandoned in favour of a muffled yell as Elias’ tongue takes over from his fingers. He licks across Jon’s hole, delicate, exploratory, and Jon reacts as if electrocuted. His fingers grip senselessly at the bedspread. He makes high, helpless sounds as the tip of Elias’ tongue dips briefly inside him, a warm, slick pressure that makes his knees go utterly weak.

It is so very like Elias to selectively isolate something Jon has no experience with, and to execute it with such proficiency that Jon can do nothing but submit. He feels himself breached again, deeper this time. He doesn’t recognise the sound that comes from his mouth.

 Jon pushes back against the tongue that works him steadily open, alternating between fucking into him and teasing the edges of his hole, making promises it keeps in its own time, and not Jon’s. At some point, he finds himself reaching desperately back, grabbing a handful of Elias’ hair.

He is struck with an inexplicable certainty that Elias doesn’t mind it. That he likes the fumble of Jon’s hand, the sting as his hair is tugged in response to one of his saliva-slick fingers pushing in deep next to his tongue.

At some point, Jon becomes aware of tears in his eyes, leaving damp patches in the pillow. He doesn’t care. He’s past thinking about anything other than what Elias wants him to.  

Elias fucks him eventually, though it seems like something of an afterthought; he already has what he wants, he knows how to make Jon break for him. Everything else is detail. But then, Jon thinks as he yells himself hoarse into Elias’ shoulder, he has always been fond of details. They both have.

Elias gives him a couple of leaving gifts; bruises in the hollows of his hips which are shaped not quite like fingers and not quite like claws. An aftertaste not unlike ink on his tongue, and a minor limp he’ll have to conceal. It seems only fair given that Jon bites one of his shoulders to bleeding, black and a little too viscous. He doesn’t ask, and Elias doesn’t offer to explain.

Afterwards, Jon settles down onto Elias’ chest, head tucked under his chin, weight distributed across his torso and stomach and thighs. They declare a truce of sorts. At least until they catch their breath.

Jon dozes a little. He inhales, Elias’ scent mixed in with his own, the smells of sweat and sex and whatever substance Elias bleeds, which is not blood as Jon knows it. He’s far too tired to get up and shower again. Elias’ hands are on his back, drawing aimless patterns up and down his spine. It’s good. Comfortable; comforting. It’s not something Jon can ever afford to get used to.

He gives a silent sigh, breathing out against Elias’ collarbone. Feels him stir in response.

“I’ve never met anyone who thinks as loudly as you do,” Elias comments. “You might want to consider being a bit more subtle about it.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking,” Jon retorts half-heartedly.

“You’re _thinking_ that this will make it much more difficult when the time comes for you to try and kill me,” Elias says. He doesn’t comment on the way Jon stiffens abruptly; his hands continue to stroke Jon’s back. “It’s alright; I won’t hold your attempts against you. These days they’re practically part of the job description.”

“Yours or mine?”

Elias chuckles. “Now _that’s_ a question I really don’t have an answer to. Both, I suppose. And just so you know, I am aware of your discussions with Daisy down in the tunnels. I’m a little baffled that you thought I wouldn’t be; as you said, it takes effort to see inside them, but it’s far from impossible. If you want to keep secrets from me you’ll have to do better than that.”

Jon doesn’t move. He doesn’t feel any great need to; he’s probably more comfortable than Elias is right now, and that’s a good incentive to stay right where he is. “If you’re so sure I’m going to kill you, why are you just letting me run off to a different country? Why am I still _alive_ , when Gertrude tried the same thing?”

“You’re not going to kill me,” Elias tells him serenely. “I said that you would _try_ , not that you’d succeed.”

“Answer the question, or I’ll ask you properly.”

“You should be doing that anyway.”

“ _Elias_. Please.”

“I suppose it’s as good a time as any for indulgence,” Elias admits. “Alright. You’re not going to kill me because, unlike Gertrude, you don’t actually want me dead.”

“Debatable.”

“Most things are,” Elias says. “But not in this case. Jon. You approached Daisy in the tunnels because you were looking for a way to neutralise me. Not kill. Capture, perhaps, or otherwise remove. But at no point did you want me dead, and I suspect that’s because you’re starting to understand what I’ve been saying all along: I am not your enemy. I don’t want to hurt you. Even if you were seriously trying to plot my murder, I’d still plan for a non-lethal response. You’re not so easily replaced, you know.”

“I thought you didn’t play favourites.” Jon lifts himself up to look Elias in the eyes. It means digging his elbows into Elias’ chest, but he doesn’t mind that. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. He appreciates not having to be the one to make them.

“I don’t,” Elias says. And then he laughs, his chest shaking under Jon. “Except when I do. It happens to the best of us.” Wincing, he nudges Jon’s elbow off his collarbone. “Look. Do whatever it is you feel is best. Conspire against me, attempt to overthrow me, lock me up, I don’t especially care. As long as the Unknowing remains your first priority, I am, for the moment, satisfied.”

“I’m not about to ignore the impending apocalypse just because you annoy me,” Jon objects.

“Now _that’s_ a relief.”

“Oh, shut up.” Jon drops his head back onto Elias’ chest. It’s a lot more comfortable than he’d willingly admit; he likes the steady heartbeat against his cheek, and the weight of Elias’ hands on his back. It feels normal. Mundane. Safe, almost; if his imagination was a little better, he might be able to pretend they have nothing to worry about beyond Jon’s departure in the morning.

He doesn’t think he’ll miss Elias. He hopes he won’t, for the sake of his pride, if nothing else. And they’ll probably benefit from a bit of distance, in a situation where Jon does one job and Elias does another, and they try not to tread on each other’s toes.

If they can pull this off, Jon thinks, they might actually have a chance at…something. Though for the life of him he can’t think what.

“I’ll wake you when it’s time,” Elias murmurs into Jon’s hair. “Do you prefer tea or coffee?”

“You don’t already know?”

“English Breakfast, strong, a splash of milk but no sugar,” Elias says. “I do know. But I thought you’d appreciate me asking anyway.”

“Coffee, thanks,” Jon retorts. “Black. Since you’re offering.”

“Noted,” Elias says serenely. “Turn out the light, would you?”

Jon does. He settles down at Elias’ side, unwilling to fall asleep on his chest; it feels a step too far, somehow. Too close, too affectionate. And he doubts he’d be comfortable anyway.

Still, Jon doesn’t argue when Elias drapes an arm around his waist and presses up against his spine. He won’t have to put up with it for long; the hour feels late, though he’s far too relaxed to reach for his watch to check. It’s probably somewhere around midnight. He’ll be up again in a couple of hours, fleeing the country to chase a thread Gertrude probably never wanted found in the first place. Forcing stories from those who have them; pulling truths from thin air. And, if he’s lucky, he might even manage to save the world.

Wordlessly, he finds Elias’ hand where it rests near his stomach. Intertwines their fingers. Hopes Elias will read his mind, and know better than to comment.

He doesn’t say anything.

In the lull between one disaster and the next, Jon sleeps.


End file.
